A City Without Walls
by etraytin
Summary: "It is possible to provide security against other ills, but as far as death is concerned, we men live in a city without walls." -Epicurus. CJ comes home from New York.


Author's Note: Here's another prompt-fic, this one from Anonymous, who asked: "Did CJ ever tell anyone what went on between her and Simon?" Other authors have handled this post-ep with far more grace than I'll ever be able to muster, but I took a stab at it anyway. Hope you enjoy!

…...

CJ didn't cry on the trip home from New York. That didn't actually surprise Carol very much. She'd worked for CJ since the campaign, four years of endless days and more sleepless nights than Carol liked to remember. CJ was never one to let her vulnerability show. To betray any weakness was to invite suicide by press corps, who were a pack of habituated wolves, sometimes friendly, sometimes useful, but never tame or safe. Always ravenously hungry. During the twenty-four hours of hell that had been the aftermath of Rosslyn, CJ had been panicked, traumatized and concussed, but she'd never let an iota of it slip out anywhere but her office. Even as Carol had stifled her own tears and scoured the internet for information on exactly how bad it was if someone's pupils didn't quite dilate together, her boss had fended off Danny Concannon and the rest of the wolves with a whip and a chair, keeping Josh safe, keeping the West Wing and Residence sacrosanct. After Josh was out of the woods and the President back in the White House, and the press corps were all out filing their stories, CJ had closed her blinds and asked Carol to bar the door for an hour. On the other side of the door, Carol had listened to her weeping and had shed tears as well, but guarded her boss's privacy. Sixty minutes later, she'd taken in tissues and eyedrops, and they'd never said a word about it. That was how they coped.

When Ron Butterfield pulled CJ out of the theater in the middle of the play, Carol didn't pay too much attention. She made sure CJ wasn't giving her the come-along signal, then settled back into her seat to enjoy the show. CJ wasn't nearly as codependent as certain other senior staffers; she liked to handle a lot of things on her own. But then another Secret Service agent came to collect Toby, and it was Toby who caught her eye and nodded towards the exit. It was Toby who whispered to her that Simon Donovan was dead and CJ was in the wind, somehow beyond the Presidential cordon and on foot somewhere in the city with no coat or handbag. They all went to look, Carol and Toby and Margaret and Sam, but in the end CJ came back in on her own, shivering but not acknowledging it, her eyes empty and dry. She looked sculpted, Carol thought, the bones of her face and the cords of her neck cast in stark relief like something carved not in marble, but in rose-colored granite.

Toby and Sam descended on her right away, Sam with his tailored suitcoat and Toby with his silver flask, warming her up and gently chiding her for going away, trying not to show hurt when the woman who was like a sister to them all but ignored their concern. Carol realized that CJ had not talked to them about Simon; they were worried but flying blind and CJ was not about to clue them in at this too-late date. A Secret Service agent dying was a tragedy that touched them all, even if that had been all it was.

CJ seemed to shake herself back to life when Leo came out to tell them the play was ending. He laid a sympathetic hand on her shoulder, before telling her she needed to do one last stand-up with the press before the motorcade left. Toby and Sam were indignant, and Carol herself was on the verge of somehow trying to intervene, despite the fact that an assistant's opinion would mean less than nothing right now. Leo wouldn't be moved, though, insisting that their departure seem as normal as possible for reasons that were entirely opaque to Carol. CJ just nodded and accepted the task, slipping into the ladies room to reapply both her makeup and the layers of press secretary that would cover her. Carol watched her carefully, holding the makeup bag and checking for any signs she would break, but there were none. Sometimes Carol wanted CJ's job someday more than anything in the world. Sometimes she wouldn't have taken it for love or money.

CJ spoke briefly to the press in front of the theatre, commenting about how much the President had enjoyed the play, how much money had been raised for the charitable causes of the church. She dropped in a funny one-liner Sam had whispered in her ear about Ritchie's traffic woes, delivering it perfectly despite her eyes still being so hollow. Simon Donovan was not the story tonight, his story would be tomorrow when his next of kin had been notified. For tonight, CJ didn't even mention it. Carol saw some of the reporters notice that CJ wasn't quite herself, but nobody mentioned it in the gaggle. Anybody sensitive enough to notice was also smart enough to realize that trying to make the press secretary the news in a vulnerable moment would not earn them any points at all. When it was over, Carol led her off to one of the town cars and put her in the middle seat, taking the seat closest to the passenger door herself and blocking the view of any nosy interlopers. With no discussion needed, Toby walked around and took the other window seat. CJ was silent between them, her skin still worryingly cool to the touch, staring into nothing like a robot someone had deactivated. Carol could see the worry in Toby's eyes, and the mild confusion as well. He had not expected her to act this way. They said nothing all the way back to the airport.

Once on the plane, Carol had to give up her vigil in favor of wrangling the press, assuring the reporters that CJ was bored of them and couldn't possibly cope with them for one more minute tonight. She thought she sold it pretty well, though the smile on her lips felt fake and overly wide. The press corps were pretty bored themselves, so it was fairly easy to tuck them into their seats and lower the lights, just like putting a fussy toddler to bed. By the time she returned to the staff cabin, all the senior staffers had been pulled into a strategy session with the President and Leo. Carol's stomach clenched at that, hadn't anybody noticed that CJ needed to not be at work tonight? She collared Margaret, who'd been hanging around outside the conference room because she was efficient and nosy, and demanded her assistance in making sure Leo sent CJ home, no matter what affairs of state they were talking about in there. Margaret didn't know anything either, not officially, but there was always gossip and Margaret always knew all the gossip, even what she chose not to pass along. She just nodded at Carol, her eyes wide and sympathetic, and suggested that maybe CJ should take a couple of sick days.

The strategy session lasted nearly the entire plane flight, and CJ came out of it looking as detached as she had going in, but with several neatly jotted pages of notes on foreign policy. Carol took them and tucked them into her own briefcase to type up, then made sure her boss was buckled in properly for the descent. Toby and Sam approached but Carol glared them away, pointlessly annoyed that they hadn't done a better job at looking after CJ while she was busy. They circled, landed, disembarked at Andrews, with the press filing off like sleepy children and heading to the press bus. Carol ordinarily would've ridden with them, but not tonight. Margaret had been as good as her word, lining up a car to take CJ straight home, and Carol climbed in too without even bothering to ask.

It was a long and quiet ride to CJ's brownstone on the edge of Georgetown, even on roads as empty as they ever got in DC. CJ sat quietly, her eyes closed, her face still. Carol would've thought she was sleeping except for the occasional headlights from oncoming cars that reflected off the tears sliding down her face. Carol silently pressed a tissue into her cold hand. By the time they reached Georgetown it was almost four in the morning, and even the early runners weren't out and about yet. CJ walked up the steps and unlocked her door, letting Carol follow her in without comment. Apparently that had used up the last of her motivation, since once they were inside, CJ sat down on the couch and stopped moving entirely. Carol wondered suddenly if someone had medicated her during the flight, but it was hard to tell. She slipped off her shoes, grateful beyond measure to finally be off the three-inch heels, and headed towards the kitchen to see if there was any tea.

"He kissed me tonight," CJ's voice was loud in the silence, for all it was pitched quietly.

"He did?" Carol asked softly, coming back into the room.

"Outside the theater. Or I kissed him, but he kissed back this time. He'd just gotten the call that they'd caught the stalker and everything was going to be okay." She laughed, a sound so broken and mangled as to be better called a sob. "We'd been arguing. I loved to argue with him." She opened her eyes and stared up at the ceiling, wide eyed, dry eyed. "My detail was over, so I asked him for a drink. We were going to meet after the show."

"I'm sorry," Carol murmured, knowing it was shockingly inadequate. She wondered if it would help to tell CJ that she was sure Simon had really liked her, how he would linger at the office door before entering to adjust his cuffs and collar, smooth out his lapels. How he'd asked Carol what kind of flowers CJ liked, what restaurants, claiming to be getting a feel for her routines but obviously tucking the information away for later. It didn't matter, she decided, not when there was no later.

"We never did anything," CJ went on as though she hadn't heard. "We never had a date, we never had sex. My god, I barely knew anything about him except that he was handsome and funny and arrogant and smart..." She drew in a strangled breath. "I barely knew him," she repeated to the ceiling. "There's no reason I should be feeling this way."

"Sometimes it doesn't matter," Carol offered carefully, unsure of her footing. "There was all that potential..."

"Yeah..." CJ sighed. "Yeah." She straightened her head, then her spine, sitting forward on the couch. "The story's going to hit the wires in an hour or two, if it hasn't already. We need to talk to Nancy and make sure the President has made all the necessary calls. Make sure Anthony Marcus is on there, someone in the Secret Service office can probably get the information. I'm going to need a couple minutes with Ron Butterfield to draft a release, and then some wording for the morning briefing. It'll go more smoothly if I prime somebody to ask about why we waited until morning. Katie Witt will probably do it with no problem if you give her a nudge. Have the deputies get into the archives and find a couple of file photos, one current, one from around the time of Rosslyn, it's going to come up. Tell Henry-"

"CJ," Carol interrupted, growing alarmed by the rapidly increasing pace and pitch of CJ's words. "You don't have to do this. It's almost dawn already. Take the day and get some rest. I'll help Henry do the briefing and get the press packet together." She crossed the room and sat down awkwardly on the edge of the couch next to CJ. "Take the day," she encouraged again. "Let yourself feel that way for a little bit. It's okay."

For a minute Carol was sure that CJ would argue or shoot her down entirely, but then suddenly she slumped back against the couch, seeming to deflate all at once. "You're right," she admitted. "If I go in and can't hack it, then I'm the story and not him. He doesn't deserve that. I'll come in tomorrow night and start prepping the new foreign policy initiative."

Carol knew that was the best deal she was going to get, and was grateful for it. "I'll have the notes ready for you."

"Okay." CJ ran a hand over her eyes. "Oh, and I need you to call me a mechanic. My car is in the lot at the White House still, and it's missing some parts. I don't know where they are and there's nobody to put them back in anyway..." For some reason, this was the straw that broke the camel's back. She hunched over and put her face in her hands, sobbing in thick, choking bursts like she was crying out pieces of broken heart. Carol put an arm around her and held on, but there was nothing she could say. Sometimes there just wasn't any later, and sometimes potential was never realized. Platitudes wouldn't help a woman who spent her life crafting carefully empty words. Carol reached out and grabbed the packet of tissues from her purse, putting them into CJ's hand without saying anything. That was how they coped.


End file.
